Never mind that Mrs. Grandon had paid Leo Spivak ten dollars to take down the storm window for her that morning. When he'd asked her what for, she told him something about how she wanted to clean it up, or paint it, or replace it, he couldn't remember exactly what it was she said. Ten dollars was ten dollars, and that was good enough for Leo.
John shook his head, shivered. His profile was sharp, eyes watery, nose raw. All week he had been coming down with a cold. She'd done it on purpose, according to him. Obviously. She was trying to kill herself. Anybody could see that. He sniffed. Swiped at his face with the back of his hand. What was so pathetic, he went on, was just how poorly she had judged the height and calculated the fall, how greatly she had overestimated what would be the actual force of the impact. He shrugged his shoulders, irritably, and turned away.
A broken collar bone. A concussion. A few bruises. A grass-stained dress that no one would ever wear again. And that was it.
"My wife isn't well," Mr. Grandon explained. She was a danger to herself, as anyone could see. Six weeks at the Cedarcrest Retreat in Rampage, undergoing a rest cure—warm baths, plain food, deep sleep—that would help her feel better, that would make her good as new.
July 2006
Meena wakes again and outside in the forest it is raining. Not a downpour, not a storm. Just this sweet warm whispery rain coming down like a marvel out of an improbable sunny blue sky. Where are the clouds? The way the bed is placed, against a wall that faces a wide window, and the way that she is lying on it, all she can see is the tops of the trees and the rain like Christmas tinsel falling through them. She gets up and crosses the room to stand at the window, to look out the back into the trees as the rain dwindles, slows, and stops.
The forest is shining damp and fresh, shimmering brand-new, and Meena feels as if she has a newness too, in her way. She seems to be seeing everything so clearly: the very acuity of her vision causes her to squint. The deep black bark of the tall pines. The silvery wind-turned leaves of the aspens. Shafts of yellow sunlight filtering down to the dry needle blanket of the forest floor. And then, as Meena watches, the form of a deer materializes in the forest umbra, then steps out into the light. How long has it been here? Like the hidden figure in a child's picture puzzle, nothing more than an incoherent tangle of contour until you've found a way to eye it just so, and then there it is... a deer.
And now a voice is calling out, from very far away it seems at first. "Libbie!" the call comes, muted. "Libbie?"
The deer freezes in response. It stares, then startles sideways, turns and bounds off into the shadows of the trees again. There is a tapping at the door, and when Meena responds, there is Holly, smiling.
"You're up," she says.
Meena nods.
"Hungry?"
Meena nods again. She feels like a child, although she is at least twice as old as this girl.
"What time is it?"
"Almost two. You've been asleep all morning."
Holly has pulled her hair back from her forehead with a child's pink plastic headband. The silver ring in her eyebrow glints, and the skin around it is rosy, sore-looking. Infected? She is wearing a thin summer dress under a green wool cardigan sweater, with socks and boots on her feet. The sweater glitters with moisture from the recent rain.
"Listen, Will and I have some lunch made, it's nothing fancy, but if you want to join us?"
Meena starts to beg off, "That's so nice, but I couldn't—"
But Holly interrupts: "Sure you could. Come on. Bring your stuff and I'll give you a lift back down to your car." That settled, she turns away, and Meena doesn't know what else to do but pull her shoes on, grab her purse and her suitcase, and follow. She is starving.
The narrow path takes them through the trees to a wider trail that then wends its way downhill to a dilapidated shack, limp as an old hat. The roof is warped; the front porch sags. The big yellow pickup is parked to the side, and next to it an old school bus kneels on concrete blocks, windshield shattered and going nowhere. The narrow yard is overrun with dandelions. And now here's Will Gidding, stepping away from a smoking barbecue. He's grinning, so glad to see her, it seems. As if he's been expecting her, and hoping she would show up.
"Libbie!" He opens his arms, hugs Meena awkwardly. His body is soft, large, warm, and she feels like a crooked stick caught there in the cushion of his generous embrace. He is wearing rumpled khaki shorts, and a bright flowered shirt hangs over his broad belly, incongruously tropical-looking here in this mountain setting. A black baseball cap covers the thin wisps of his hair. He has been cooking hamburgers for lunch.
He takes her suitcase and sets it on the grass, then guides her to a battered redwood picnic table. "Come on now and sit down. Make yourself at home." He waves a hand to encompass their surroundings. "Welcome to our little compound!"
She sits, keeps her purse in her lap, as if it were a last vestige of her self. "Thank you."
"No sweat," he says. "You want a Coke or a beer or something?"
"Sure... um, Coke."
"Hey, Holly," he calls, heading back to his barbecue again, "be kind enough to serve our guest, wouldja?"
A square red cooler squats in the green shade at the bare base of a nearby pine. Holly obediently digs into the ice, extracts a dripping can, and hands it to Meena with a smile. Will, back at the barbecue again, beams, delighted.
Holly twists the cap off a bottle of beer for herself and takes a seat on the bench across the table from Meena. Behind her, the twisted iron sign—RAGNAROK—is framed between the two tall posts that mark the entrance to the yard.
Meena sips her soda. The fizz stings her sinuses, the sugar bites her tongue, maybe the caffeine will make her headache go away. What she really wants right now is a cigarette. She's hoping that maybe Holly will light up, and then she can ask to bum one for herself.
Will is happily flipping burgers. He flashes her a smile. "So, how'd the cabin work out?" he asks. "You find everything you need there?"
"Oh, yes, it's nice. Very nice. I love it."
He nods his head. "Good. Good. You staying long?"
She's not sure what he means. But before she can respond, he goes on, "Because of course it's yours for as long as you want it. That's what it's for, you know."
She looks at Holly, who shrugs.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
Will is pulling buns out of a plastic sack, opening them, spreading them flat upon the grill.
Holly takes a drink of beer, swallows back a burp, leans forward to explain. "This place used to be a lodge, see, about a million years ago. The owners got old and they let it fall apart. Then along comes my brother and he's crazy enough to think he can see some potential in the place. Thinks he's going to bring it back to life again. The old owners were happy to let him take it off their hands."
Will is at once effusive and evasive, behind his wide smile and beyond the nervous-seeming skitter of his eyes. He waves the spatula in a circle that encompasses the shack and the yard, the entryway, the woods all around. "Welcome to my world," he says. "Our refuge, if you will. For when the time comes. For when we need it."
"Need it?"
He nods. "And meanwhile, the cabin you are staying in just happens to be available for rent. Aspenglo, we call it. Pretty, isn't it?"
Holly interrupts. "I already told Libbie I'd give her a lift down to her car."
Will is visibly deflated. "All right, he says. "If that's what she wants."
Before Meena can respond, Holly is nodding and speaking for her. "It's what she wants, Will. You know that."
"Well, all right. I guess that's settled then." He grins at Meena. "You sure weren't in any shape to drive yourself anyplace last night."
Meena blushes, embarrassed. "I was pretty upset, I guess. I don't drink much, normally. Not whiskey anyway. And I didn't have much to eat either. I'm sorry."
He waves the spatula at her, in dismissal. "Not your fault," he says.
"That dog...," Meena st
arts.
He closes his eyes, shakes his head. "We've been through all that already, haven't we?"
"Can we please not talk about the dog?" Holly asks.
"It was an accident," Will says, setting the record straight, once and for all. "It was an old dog. Old Woody, he was an old dog and he had a good long life. Better and longer than he deserved, probably. Likely wouldn't have made it through another winter up here anyway." He smiles. "Nuff said."
"But still, it was my fault..." Meena isn't sure anymore what, exactly, they are talking about. A dog?
Will has put the buns and the burgers on a platter that he carries over and places on the center of the table. "Hey those Mexicans at the gas station are probably thankful," he says. "One less mouth to feed, right? You did them a favor." He turns away and disappears into his shack.
Holly is absent-mindedly picking at the label on her beer, shaking the shreds of paper from her fingers, letting them flake down onto the grass. The dandelions seem to swarm and nod.
"Well, I still feel like I should do something," Meena says. "At least pay to have it taken care of. Cremated, or whatever." On the platter, the hot hamburgers steam, and Meena's stomach lurches at the smell. She coughs into her fist.
Holly is squinting at her, searching Meena's face carefully. "You know, shit happens. You really shouldn't be so hard on yourself."
Meena nods, and blinks back a sting of tears, overwhelmed by hunger, and misery, and gratitude for what seems to be the easy kindness of this thin girl with her sharp dark hair, her tattooed skin so pale it's almost translucent. Is this what is going on? she wonders. Everything is disintegrating, fading off, becoming less and less distinct until eventually it will all just mist away completely and here she'll be, alone?
Once upon a time, Matka said, people took their unwanted babies out into the forest and they left them there in the open to die. Abandoned and exposed, screaming. Left to freeze in the snow or drown in the rain, to bake in the sun and be eaten by coyotes or bobcats or crows. If an infant cries out in the forest, does anybody hear?
"Will says you're on your way to California."
Meena nods. Is that really where she's headed?
"I've always wanted to go to California," Holly goes on, dreamily, then asks, "So is that where you live?"
Meena doesn't want to lie because that would be ungrateful, wouldn't it? She doesn't want to say yes and agree to something that's so completely untrue, but at the same time she knows it isn't safe for her to say no, either. And maybe she really is going to California. Why not? She solves the problem by not saying anything at all. She nods, distracted by the glint of the eyebrow ring that pierces Holly's face. Why would someone wear such an ugly thing? Why would she do that to herself? Isn't it painful? Or is it beautiful? It looks swollen, inflamed, and Meena feels herself begin to swoon, with nausea and hunger. She braces herself against the table top with both hands. Steady now. Hold on. Get a grip.
"What's it like there?" Holly is asking. "In California, I mean."
Of course the truth is that Meena has never been to California. But: "Well it's like anyplace else, I guess. Except it's warmer. And there are palm trees. And of course the ocean."
"No I mean, what's it like living there? Do you have a house?"
Meena thinks about this for a moment. A house? Or an apartment? A condominium? A bungalow maybe, up in the Hollywood Hills? She can see that Holly is watching her more closely now. Maybe she knows that Meena is lying? Maybe she has known this all along.
"Well it's nothing like this, that's for sure," Meena says, which could mean anything, so she goes on: "I mean, it's so pretty here. And peaceful." Her voice has started to sound more substantial to her now, and that's reassuring. Big and empty.
"You can say that again," Holly replies. "Nowhere, nothing, no one. The wilderness is just up the trail, about three miles. And after that, it just goes on forever."
"The wilderness?"
"Beyond the trails. Get lost there, and you're pretty much lost for good. Lions and tigers and bears, right? Nobody will find you out there. They won't even bother to look." She snaps her fingers. "Gone! Whoosh."
Meena smiles, nods. She's a normal woman having a normal conversation with another normal person. No big deal. Small talk, that's all this is. "And what about you?" she asks. "Have you lived here long?"
Holly shrugs. "Since winter. We were down in Durango before that. Will wanted us to come up here where we'd be safe."
"Safe?"
Holly grins. "He thinks we're at the End of Days, Libbie, didn't he tell you that last night?" She smirks. "Because if he didn't, then you'd be the first person I know who hasn't had to listen to him go on about it. He loves to go on about it. It's all he thinks about."
Meena nods, remembering. Tribulation. Armageddon. Apocalypse. "He really believes all that?"
Holly smiles. "I suppose you thought it was a come-on or something."
Meena is confused. "A come-on?"
"You thought he was flirting with you, right?"
She can feel the blush rising in her throat, her chest, her ears. "No, I..."
Holly crashes on. "Well, he wasn't. He's dead serious. He says the signs are everywhere. And I guess if you think about it, they are. Flood. Famine. Earthquakes. Plague. If you ask me, I think he's looking forward to it, in his way." She lowers her voice, winks, whispers behind her hand: "It turns him on, if you know what I mean."
Meena doesn't know what to say to this. It is too crazy. Idiot's delight, her father would say. Radical Christian hogwash. But who is Meena Krejci to judge? What does she know, after all? Not much, she thinks. In fact, hardly anything at all. "Well..." That's all she can manage. "Well."
Will comes out of the shack balancing a large tray of plates and napkins and flatware, a bowl of salad, and a bag of potato chips. A bottle of ketchup is tucked under one arm, mustard under the other.
"He has a shelter," Holly says.
Will is proud. "Sure I do."
Holly is mocking, sarcastic. "Loony tunes," she says. "And who'd want to survive something as bad as that anyway?"
Will is unfazed. This is an old argument, long familiar to them both. "That's just fine for you to ask now," he says, still smiling, "when you're sitting here safe and sound, well-fed and cozy, without any real threat to your self or soul."
He bows his head and folds his hands. "Thank you, Lord, for this food. Bless it and bless us poor fools who are about to eat it. Amen."
And Meena murmurs, "Amen."
He's passed a plate to Meena, and she helps herself to a burger. Juicy. Dripping grease. She sniffs at it, then takes a nibble, feels her stomach churn with resistance and puts it down. Dabs at her lips with a napkin, smiles.
Holly is forking salad onto a plate for herself.
"But survival, that's what life is all about, isn't it?" Will goes on. He's eating heartily. He's dribbled mustard on his shirt in the process, but the stain blends nicely with the wild pattern of the fabric and is hardly noticeable.
"Is it?" Meena asks.
"Well sure it is." He grins and chews.
Holly pokes at her salad. "If you ask me I'd say there are plenty of lives around that aren't worth saving."
This embarrasses Meena. She'd like to get away from here, be on her own, in her car again, traveling, even if she doesn't have any idea where to. But she doesn't want to be rude. These people have been kind to her—they've sheltered her, they've fed her, they've even forgiven what she's done. She owes them something in return, she thinks, even if it's only her interest in them for a while.
"So where is it, this shelter of yours?" she asks Will.
Holly pouts. "Over there. My worst nightmare."
Meena looks, sees nothing. The shack, the pickup, the school bus. Will is grinning.
"Aw now come on, little sister. Some day you're going to be thanking me for this. I promise you, you will." He stands, leans toward Meena. "You want to see it?"
"Jesus, Will, let
her eat something first, why dontcha? She's got a long drive ahead of her."
His response is sheepish. He ducks his head. "I'm real sorry, Libbie," he says. He reaches across the table and takes her hand. "Eat, sweetheart, eat!"
She doesn't know whether to be offended by this intimacy or flattered by it. She looks to Holly for help, but she's lighting a cigarette.
Meena has been wondering whether she's been missed yet. Surely Mimi would have been expecting her to be there for work this morning when she opened up the White Elephant Shop at ten, as always. Without Meena there to do it for her, Mimi would have had to fix the coffee herself, and that was apt to make her mad. Maybe she brought donuts to share or maybe not. Likely she's on a diet again—gnawing at celery and carrots, slurping up cottage cheese, and chewing sugarless gum—because she does this often although as far as Meena can see it never seems to make much difference, in the long run.
Pretty soon she'd start to look at the clock and peer out the front window of the shop, wondering where the heck is Meena? And then by noon she'd have begun to eye the bags and boxes of clothes that got left outside the back door over the weekend and now need to be gone through and sorted, which is usually Meena's job. Who will do that, if Meena doesn't? Not Mimi Hanrahan, that's for sure. Meena is always the one who makes the first cut, deciding what's worth keeping and what's not. She has an eye for this, Mimi has been heard to say, in an admiring way that she means for Meena to take as a compliment. But Meena knows the truth, which is that Mimi just doesn't care for going through those things herself. Because who knows what they'll find?
The White Elephant is a thrift shop in Bohemietown. Mimi buys old clothes on consignment, and she is not set up to take outright donations of other people's junk. "We're not a fucking charity," Mimi says, her voice shrill with her frustration and disgust. But nobody cares about the hairs that Mimi wants to split, and so they leave things anyway. The White Elephant buys and sells used clothes mostly, and sometimes children's toys or other knick-knacks that the women bring in, but always on consignment. Mimi has a sign outside by the back door that says this as clearly as she can think to make it: NOT A DROP OFF PLACE. But no one seems to take that sign seriously, which drives her crazy.
The Minor Apocalypse of Meena Krejci Page 15
